"Show him, Doug," ordered Charleton.

The camp had been made just within the tree line below the peak. Above,
against the glowing pink of the heavens, was etched the suave line of the
peak and topping this a heap of rocks, surmounted by a staff. West of the
staff and below it projected the top of a dead spruce on which sat an
eagle. To this Douglas pointed.

"Down the mountain on a line with the staff and the dead spruce in a
thick clump of young aspen, about an acre of it. The old corral is
there."

Scott nodded. They broke camp at once and trotted off, each one for
himself. The Moose was not yet a cow-pony, but, from Doug's viewpoint at
least, he was now quite manageable. Any one in Lost Chief could rope a
steer from a well-trained horse. Douglas proposed to repay Scott's sneer
by bringing in on his half-broken mount as many animals as either of his
companions on their seasoned cow-ponies. And although Doug risked his
life a hundred times, four of the dozen fat steers that were milling
about in the old corral by nine o'clock had been dragged in by the
snorting, trembling Moose.

When Doug closed the bars on his fourth steer, he waited for a short time
for Charleton and Scott, but as neither appeared, he set off after
another brute. He had ridden a good mile from the corral when he heard
the bellow of a bull and a shout from Charleton. He spurred the Moose in
the direction of the cry. Democrat was standing with the reins over his
head. Under a giant pine close by, Charleton was clinging desperately
to the horns of a red bull. Blood was running over the back of his gray